Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

McBride holstered his revolver and took a knee beside the cook. ‘‘I’ve sent for the marshal,’’ he said. He looked directly into the waitress’s eyes. ‘‘Did you know him well?’’

The woman’s plump cheeks were streaked with tears, heavy as the relentless rain running down the restaurant window. ‘‘I’ve known him for thirty-two years,’’ she said. ‘‘He is my husband.’’

At a loss for words, McBride put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. Lance Josephine groaned and stirred. He sat up and took his bloody face in his hands, rocking back and forth.

McBride watched the man, his eyes cold and hard. He’d never wanted to shoot anyone so badly in his life as he did then.

Chapter 6

Boot heels thumped on the floor behind him, and McBride rose to his feet. Marshal Thad Harlan was standing close to him, rain dripping from his hat and yellow slicker. He held a ten-gauge Greener in his hands, pointed square at McBride’s belly, and his riding crop hung from his left wrist.

McBride nodded toward Josephine. ‘‘I want this man charged with murder,’’ he said. ‘‘His name is—’’

‘‘I know his name,’’ Harlan said. He looked around the room and only then did his eyes fall on the dead cook. ‘‘What happened?’’ he asked McBride.

‘‘The girl must have spoken to you. Isn’t it obvious what happened?’’

‘‘No. You tell me.’’

‘‘Josephine was abusing the girl. The cook—’’

‘‘Axel Davis.’’

‘‘—tried to stop him. Josephine pulled his gun and shot him.’’

Harlan’s eyes dropped to the grieving waitress. ‘‘Mrs. Davis, was that the way of it?’’

‘‘Yes, damn him!’’ the woman screamed. ‘‘He killed my husband in cold blood. I want to see him hang.’’ She looked up at the marshal and her eyes were filled with fire. ‘‘You’ve hanged so many, Harlan, including some who didn’t deserve it. Now let’s see you hang one who does.’’

‘‘I’ll uphold the law, Mrs. Davis,’’ the lawman said. He spoke to Josephine. ‘‘Get up on your feet, Lance.’’

The man rose. He had taken his hands from his face and his ruined nose looked like a smashed red flower.

‘‘Who did that to you?’’ Harlan asked.

Josephine pointed at McBride and when he spoke he snuffled like a man with a bad cold. ‘‘He did. The saddle tramp hit me with a gun.’’

‘‘Why did you shoot Axel?’’

‘‘It was self-defense.’’ Josephine picked up the heavy meat cleaver from the floor. ‘‘He came at me with this,’’ he said. His mustache was stiff with dried blood. ‘‘I had to defend myself.’’

‘‘McBride, was Axel holding the cleaver when Mr. Josephine shot him?’’

McBride noted the ‘‘Mr.’’ and his temper flared. ‘‘He was working with the cleaver in the kitchen. When he came out he probably forgot he was still holding it.’’

‘‘How do you know that for sure? You said ‘he probably forgot.’ ’’

‘‘All right, then he did forget.’’

Harlan was silent for a moment; then he said, ‘‘Was Axel armed with a meat cleaver when he approached Mr. Josephine in a threatening manner?’’

‘‘I thought you wanted the truth.’’

‘‘I do, so tell me the truth. Was Axel armed with a meat cleaver when he threatened Mr. Josephine? Yes or no?’’

‘‘He didn’t threaten him, Harlan. He wanted him to stop hurting the girl.’’

‘‘What did Axel say?’’

‘‘He said, ‘That won’t do.’ He said something along those lines.’’

The marshal nodded. ‘‘Then it was a threat.’’

McBride felt trapped. He looked across the room at Josephine. The man’s lips were twisted in a triumphant sneer. ‘‘Harlan, it was cold-blooded murder. I know it, you know it and so does that no-good tinhorn over there.’’ He looked hard at the lawman. ‘‘Ask the girl, Clare. She saw it.’’

Harlan smiled. ‘‘I already did. She says Axel Davis came at Mr. Josephine with a meat cleaver. She says Lance was protecting himself and her.’’

‘‘The girl is afraid of Josephine. She’ll say anything you want.’’

Harlan seemed to consider that; then, dismissing it, he said, ‘‘You can go, Mr. Josephine. Better get Doc Ritter to take a look at that nose. Your father wouldn’t want you to miss the funeral.’’

Mrs. Davis rose to her feet. In her black waitress uniform it looked as if she were already wearing widow’s weeds. ‘‘Damn you to hell, Thad Harlan,’’ she shrieked. ‘‘You’re letting that scum go because he’s a rich man’s son, the spawn of a mayor who has opened this town to every killer and two-bit outlaw in the territory.’’ She took a step toward the marshal, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. ‘‘How can you live with yourself?’’

‘‘I live with myself just fine,’’ Harlan said. His thin face was stiff, as though it had been chipped from granite. ‘‘Now go grieve for your husband as you should.’’

‘‘I’ll grieve for him,’’ the woman said tightly, as though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. ‘‘And I grieve for you, Thad Harlan. You’ve sold your soul to a devil named Jared Josephine and I say be damned to you.’’

‘‘That’s enough out of you, woman,’’ Lance Josephine said. His nose was swollen to twice its normal size and he was breathing noisily through his mouth. He picked his gun up from the floor, shoved it into the holster, then reached into the back pocket of his pants. He produced a leather wallet and counted out some bills. He proffered them to Mrs. Davis. ‘‘Here, take this. It’s five hundred dollars.’’

The woman angrily slapped his hand away. ‘‘I won’t take your blood money. I hope you burn in hell.’’

‘‘Well, that suits me. I was giving you too much anyhow,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘What’s the life of a cook worth?’’

‘‘More than you can ever pay, Lance.’’ Dora Ryan was standing in the doorway, wearing a gray hooded cloak that was black with rain, the hem mud-spattered. Her hard edge was showing, a woman who had seen the worst of human nature back in a shady and mysterious past. What men did or said no longer surprised or offended her, and that was evident in the flatness of her voice. ‘‘Now do as the marshal says and get your nose seen to. You sure don’t look so pretty anymore.’’

Josephine seemed stricken, as though it had just dawned on him that his handsome features could have been ruined by the big man who was staring at him with such silent contempt. He rushed for the door but stopped and turned at the sound of Harlan’s voice.

‘‘Mr. Josephine, do you want to press charges against this man?’’

Josephine seemed surprised by the question. ‘‘Of course I want to press charges. I want that man dead.’’ He hesitated a moment, then added, ‘‘He wears a shoulder holster.’’

‘‘I know where he carries his gun,’’ Harlan said.

Josephine stepped through the door into windblown rain. A trail of blood spots across the floor marked where he had walked.

As Dora did her best to comfort Mrs. Davis, the marshal said to McBride, his skin tight against the bone, ‘‘Three serious assaults already and you haven’t been in town two hours.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, in my experience, all hard cases need is to be locked up for a spell and they go back to being virtuous.’’

McBride’s voice rang with disdain. ‘‘You mean breaking Lance Josephine’s nose is not a hanging offense, Marshal?’’

Harlan shrugged, his eyes like ice. ‘‘It might be, so don’t push it, McBride. It depends on what the mayor thinks. I should warn you that as a general rule he’s not a forgiving man.’’